What are friends for?
by PhantomSnape01
Summary: Holmes is wounded and Watson is there. But Watson can't help Sherlock through recovery.


The man stood a few feet away; grinning slyly at the great detective. Holmes watched as he straightened up and brushed his fingers through his hair. He did not feel comfortable here alone with this criminal.

"Where are you, Watson?" he asked himself, clenching his hands into fists.

"What's wrong, Holmes?" the other man asked, smiling wickedly. The detective didn't answer as he reached into his coat and held onto the handle of the pistol. He took a deep breath as he took a step toward the man.

"Come now, Mr. Jameson. You can come along peacefully and no one will be hurt." Holmes said, his hands slightly shaking.

"You must think you're so brilliant, don't you Holmes? But the thing is, that's just a façade. If people knew the real you, Sherlock, they wouldn't be so impressed, now would they?" the man said, turning to face him. Holmes was quiet as he pondered what that statement meant.

"You know nothing about me, Jameson." He finally answered, taking another deep breath. He had never felt so angry before, except once; but he brushed that memory aside, as he tried to focus on the matter at hand.

"I don't want to harm you." He replied. The man laughed and his eyes grew serious.

"Good bye, Holmes." He said. Holmes straightened and seemed confused. He had not noticed Jameson take a pistol and cock it. Holmes' eyes widen when he saw the glint of silver. He heard the gunshot, but it was if he was paralyzed; but when he could finally move, it was already too late. He felt the sharp, agonizing pain in his shoulder; he collapsed to his knees, his left arm limp.

"Holmes!" he heard someone shout where somewhere else.

"Watson?" he whispered; he felt himself falling back. But someone caught him, and lowered him to the ground. He opened his eyes and looked up his friend and partner.

"Hold on, Holmes. You're going to be alright." The older man said, removing his coat and draping it over the detective. Holmes gripped the coat tightly with his left hand as he tried to ignore the lingering pain.

"Watson, I've never felt such pain before." He whimpered, trying to catch his breath. Watson smiled weakly and pulled the cloak back so he could examine the wound. It was worse then he thought. Holmes closed his eyes and his head fell to the side as he lost consciousness.

"Holmes…Holmes…. Sherlock." he said patting the man's face, trying to wake him. He had to get his friend to a doctor, soon or he might not survive. He lifted the skinnier, leaner man into his arms, cradling him to his chest.

"He got away, Watson. I let him get away." He heard Holmes moan as he regained consciousness, but quickly lost it again.

"It's quite alright, we'll get him. But we have to get you help first." He replied, struggling under the other man's weight. Watson had to stop a couple of times before he finally made it back to the road and the carriage. The detective now lay completely limp in the doctor's arms. His head was laid back.

Watson laid him down gently in the carriage, fixing the cloak over the younger man's body. He then climbed up into the driver's eat and urged the horses on at a full gallop. It had started to rain as they made their way back to the inn. Holmes was white as a sheet and his chest barely moved.

"Holmes, hang on." Watson pleaded, carrying the man into the inn and taking him to their room. He laid him on the bed. One of the maids followed him and gasped as Watson started removing Holmes' upper clothing.

"We need a doctor, now." He informed, turning to glance at her before returning his attention back to his friend. Holmes opened his eyes lazily and looked up at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The maid nodded and disappeared.

"Don't talk, Holmes. You need to conserve your energy." Watson explained, using Holmes' shirt as a cloth to stop the bleeding. He closed his eyes again, his head lolling back on the pillow. Watson checked his pulse, finding it weak and fading.

"Please, Sherlock. Don't give up just yet." He muttered. The doctor soon arrived, pushing him out of the way. He didn't say a word, but got right to work. He didn't ask any questions until he was finished. He bandaged Holmes' shoulder and pulled the top quilt up around his shoulders.

"Why couldn't you help him?" the doctor asked, turning toward Watson.

"I don't know. He is a very close friend of mine. I was taught never attend to someone who you know personally." He replied. His fellow doctor nodded and finished wiping his hands on. He turned to glance at his patient.

"Will you be alright?" Watson asked, taking a deep breath.

"He should. But he needs his rest, and he probably won't wake for a couple of days. I will leave some medicine for pain." He answered, taking out a bottle and placing it on the dresser. He closed his bag and walked to the door. Watson shook his hand and closed the door behind him.

He walked back to the bed and sat down in the chair. Holmes was propped up on three pillows, so he was almost sitting up. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow and his skin was still pale.

"You gave me quite a scare, Holmes." Watson mumbled, stroking his fingers through his white, thinning hair.

"Watson?" his friend whimpered, opening his eyes slowly; his eyelids seemed heavy.

"Holmes, you're alright. It's over," Watson informed, kneeling down beside the bed. Holmes looked over at him, and smiled weakly, "you need to rest, Sherlock. Go back to sleep." Holmes nodded and gave into the drowsiness. Watson stroked a strand of brown hair out of his college's face, and then returned to his chair. He soon gave into sleep, himself.


End file.
